A Death in the Family (12 page)

‘I’m not trying to escape,’ I protested. ‘This must be some kind of misunderstanding.’

But he was too intent on dragging me upstairs to listen to my pleas. In fact, other than squeezing my arm in a vice-like grip he paid me no attention at all. I, on the other hand, was able to ascertain his personal hygiene left much to be desired and he had wiry ginger hairs growing out of his ears.

‘I’ve got her, governor!’ he yelled as we reached the main hall. ‘I’ve got the girl.’ He stopped, waiting for a response.

‘You make it sound as if you have had to chase me over several fields as opposed to merely dragging an unresisting young girl up a few stairs,’ I said. He continued to ignore me.

Mr Richard stormed into the hall closely followed by Mrs Wilson. Mrs Wilson’s face was contorted in a grimace. I realised she was smiling. I began to worry.

‘Where have you been, girl?’ exploded Mr Richard.

‘Down to the village, sir.’

‘A fine story!’ cried Mrs Wilson.

‘Who gave you permission?’ thundered Mr Richard.

‘Mrs Deighton.’

‘Why?’

‘She wanted me to get some currants,’ I said in a very small voice. I had completely forgotten my errand.

‘So where are they?’ cried Mrs Wilson.

‘I forgot,’ I mumbled.

‘Nonsense. You never went down to the village at all, did you?’

‘I did!’ I protested.

‘Then how comes your boots aren’t muddy?’ asked the constable.

‘The frost is coming down,’ I snapped. ‘Will you kindly let go of my arm? I’m not liable to run away.’

‘Empty your pockets,’ asked Mr Richard more calmly.

Puzzled, I turned out my coat pockets. My letter was ignored, but Mr Richard pounced on the coin and held it up in front of my eyes. ‘From my father’s purse.’ The vein in his neck bulged.

‘Lord Stapleford gave it to me.’

‘The girl tells nothing but lies!’ shouted Mrs Wilson triumphantly.

‘But you were there!’ I cried.

‘I reckon as to how she is the murderer, sir. It makes sense. Some kind of Bolshie, I reckon,’ opined the policeman.

‘I only found the body,’ I said as calmly as I could. ‘Please ask Lord Stapleford about the coin. He will tell you he gave it to me himself.’

‘As if you don’t know,’ sneered the constable. ‘Lord Stapleford is dead. Murdered.’

With what my mother would have denounced as an unfortunate tendency towards the melodramatic I fainted quite away at the word “murder”.

The next thing I knew I was back in that wretched library. I had been lain on a rather hard settle. As I came drowsily around, I realised Mr Richard was talking.

‘It’s a damn rotten thing to happen to one’s Papa, but on a national level it’s a tragedy. Papa was the back-up man for George. The party’s lost two of its best men in quick succession.’

‘Party, sir?’ It was a man’s voice I did not recognise. Well spoken but with the sense that every vowel was earned and with a faint twang of an accent that could not quite be diminished. I guessed this must be the inspector.

‘Unionists, man! The Unionists! We’ve finally got a shot to unseat the Liberals.’

‘Ah, party politics. Not something the force is connected with, sir.’

‘Yes, but surely, you must see,’ blustered Mr Richard, ‘this could be a politically motivated crime. Someone trying to bring down the country!’

‘Correct me if I’m wrong here, sir, but it’s you Unionists that want to turn the government out of power.’

I stifled a giggle. The man had it right.

‘Good God, man! We want a better-run country, not to bring it to its knees!’

‘I see your point, sir. Now, if I’m not mistaken that young girl is awake.’

Mr Richard pointed an accusatory finger at me in a manner even that I feel a neutral critic would have found even more melodramatic than my fainting fit. ‘You! You girl! You’re Bolshevik, aren’t you? A Marxist.’

I sat up. My head thumped unpleasantly. ‘I am not entirely sure one can be both,’ I said.

‘Ha!’ Mr Richard thumped a fist into the palm of his hand. ‘There you have it. No serving maid knows anything of politics! She’s an impostor.’

The inspector, a small neat man in a discreet woollen suit and carefully combed short beard, regarded me from small brown eyes. I shifted uncomfortably. It was not that I found his manner exactly threatening, but I had the sense of a keen brain working behind a perfect mask. Also, while I was not guilty of murder I was guilty of deception and duplicity does not fit well with a lifelong career as a vicar’s daughter.

‘Well, girl, what do you know of politics?’

‘I cannot say I think of it often, sir. It has little to do with me.’

The inspector smiled thinly. ‘Would all women felt that way.’

I bridled and suppressed an urge to confess a sudden conversion to the suffragette movement.

‘You have no knowledge of the Bolshevik philosophy?’

‘Very little.’

‘But some?’ Mr Richard pounced like a cat on a mouse. Fortunately, it was only a verbal pounce.

‘Only what I have seen in the papers, sir.’

‘Lord Stapleford,’ began the inspector.

‘What?’

‘It is a hereditary title, is it not? You’re a “Lord” now – I have that right?’

Mr Richard sat down heavily on a chair and rubbed his head with one large hand. ‘Yes. Yes. Feels strange to hear it. Makes the poor old Pater’s death more real.’

‘I am sorry, sir. I was going to explain that I think it is unlikely that a girl of a build such as your servant here could have overpowered Lord Stapleford.’

‘Then she is an accomplice!’

‘If you will permit me, sir, I have been making some inquiries of my own.’ He raised his voice. ‘Constable, send him in!’

The door opened and the man who had trodden on Siegfried’s tail came in. My heart sank.

‘Could you confirm this young woman was the one you saw in the snug of the Red Lion?’

The man glowered at me. ‘It was.’

‘When was this?’ asked the inspector.

‘Be about four of the clock, I reckon.’

‘You see, Lord Stapleford, unless this girl can fly it would be impossible for her to be your father’s assailant.’

‘She could still be an accomplice. I know there is something wrong about her. Doubtless her partner in crime has fled. Probably halfway back to Russia by now. She was the one who gave him the knowledge he needed of the house. That’s how these damn Bolsheviks work. Infiltration.’

‘Was she with someone?’

‘Aye,’ answered the man. My heart stopped as I waited to see what he said next. ‘But I didnae see his face. It were too dark. I only saw her ’cos I trod on her great lump of–’

‘You were very rude and threatening,’ I jumped in before he could reveal the presence of a large white wolfhound of which I doubted there were many in the neighbourhood. ‘It is my belief you were intoxicated and were not seeing straight!’

‘Why, you little bitch …’

‘That’s enough!’ commanded the police inspector.

‘But she’s taking my good name!’ protested the large man.

‘You should have thought of that before you chose to enter a tavern in the afternoon. Go now before I start asking questions.’

The man threw me an evil look and left muttering. I breathed a sigh of relief.

‘There’s no need for you to be looking so smug, missy,’ said the inspector. ‘I advise you now to tell the whole truth and reveal the name of your companion.’

My position was an impossible one. ‘I prefer not to say.’

‘Young lady, I warn you, keeping important information from the police is a jail-able offence. What was the name of your companion?’

He fairly shouted the last few words at me and I think it was this above all else that decided me not to say. I had no idea if Mr Bertram would even own to our association and, if he denied it … well, things would only get worse. I kept my lips together and cast my eyes down. The inspector walked over to the door and yanked it open. ‘Get that housekeeper in here.’

I sat silently hoping for a rescue that never came. How could it be I had no one to take me away from all this?

Mrs Wilson swept into the room. Her eyes alighted on me and her lips curled. ‘How can I be of service, sirs?’ Her voice was demure and soft, but I could see the triumph implicit in every inch of her frame.

‘What can you tell me of the character of this woman?’ asked the inspector.

‘I am afraid, sir, the fault is mine. I was prevailed upon to engage her services for a fortnight trial period without references.’

‘Without references? Is that not unusual?’

I saw Mrs Wilson shoot a fleeting glance in the new Lord Stapleford’s direction. I was not sure if the inspector noticed. After a moment’s hesitation, she said simply, ‘We are quite remote in the country, sir, and few young girls – unless they are born local – are interested in working here. They prefer to be in London.’

‘So you have no knowledge of this young woman’s character?’

‘Only what I have observed, inspector, and that is not to the good.’

‘Explain yourself,’ said the inspector. ‘I want detail, not conjecture.’

‘It appears she did indeed gain the coin from the late Lord Stapleford, but I could not say how it was acquired.’

‘Wilson!’ barked Mr Richard. ‘The man is not yet in his grave.’

A faint pink flitted under the bone-white skin. ‘I meant only, sir, that this young woman was clearly intent on ingratiating herself with her betters.’

‘Is that not a proper thing for a servant to do?’ asked the inspector. ‘Or are you suggesting something more?’

‘In my experience a maidservant is eager to please her betters, but she is also keen to remain unobserved. In fact she should display a difference and an awareness of her station that would cause any actual interaction with her master to be an overwhelming ordeal she would prefer to avoid. In Euphemia’s case she appears to court the attention of her betters. I had information from our butler, Mr Holdsworth, that she was even seen to accost Mr Richard in the scullery room!’

‘One might wonder what Mr Richard was doing in the scullery room,’ I murmured under my breath.

‘What you are saying, Mrs Wilson, is this young woman displays no understanding of her place. Would you go as far as to say she shows contempt for our class structure?’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Wilson vehemently. ‘I would say so, sir.’

The inspector rounded on me. ‘It appears then I must revise my initial impression of you, young woman. Are you a Bolshevik?’

‘No, of course not,’ I could not keep the scorn out of my voice.

‘Or a Marxist?’

‘She’s hardly going to admit it, is she, inspector?’ said Lord Richard.

‘You’d be surprised what criminals will admit under the stern eye of the law, sir.’

‘I had nothing to do with Lord Stapleford’s death and I have no interest in politics,’ I announced loudly.

‘We’ll see if a night in jail changes your mind,’ said the inspector. ‘Constable, in here!’

‘What!’ I cried, jumping to my feet. ‘You can’t throw me in jail. I haven’t done anything.’

‘You have refused to answer police questions. That’s enough for me! Constable, I say!’

The door opened. For a moment I considered diving out of the window, but it was closed and we were on the first floor. Besides, I would have to get past the gauntlet of Wilson and Lord Richard. I thought about screaming, but beyond resulting in my own exhausting and sore throat I could not see what it could achieve. I was trapped.

Mr Bertram entered making straight for his brother. ‘Richard,’ he appealed, ignoring everyone else in the room. ‘Is it true? Has Papa been found dead?’

Lord Richard came forward and placed a hand on his half-brother’s shoulder. ‘I’m afraid so, Bertie. Looks like the same bloke that did for Cousin Georgie came back for the Pater.’

Mr Bertram looked at him with blank, empty eyes. He shook off his brother’s arm. ‘But that makes no sense.’

‘I know it’s a shock, old boy, but we think it’s a Bolshevik plot. Two good men of the party practically on the eve of the election.’

Mr Bertram shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Dickie. Why here? Why us?’

‘Ask her, sir!’ spat Mrs Wilson. ‘Ask the little Bolshie yourself.’

‘What?’ asked Mr Bertram dazed. He seemed to finally realise the room was full of people. He addressed the inspector. ‘What do they mean? What do you know?’

The inspector coughed. ‘It has been suggested, sir, that this young woman might have political leanings.’

Mr Bertram blinked. The inspector placed a finger under his collar and pulled as if it had suddenly become too tight. ‘Are you mad, man?’ asked Mr Bertram.

‘There is some circumstantial evidence against her, sir. These Bolshies, they’re – excusing your pardon, Mrs Wilson – damned clever. A night in the jail will loosen her tongue.’

‘How many have you met?’ asked Mr Bertram.

‘Well, I haven’t exactly met any, sir,’ said the inspector, his accent slipping under pressure. ‘But I’ve been briefed. All the force has. Serious times and all that. I can’t say more.’

‘Good God!’ exclaimed Mr Bertram. ‘I’ve never heard such arrant nonsense. It’s my father who is dead. If anyone has cause to look for the guilty it is I, but throwing blame left and right will not help bring this killer to justice!’

‘She wouldn’t answer my questions, sir. You heard her, Lord Stapleford. She wouldn’t.’

Mr Bertram blanched at the use of his father’s title towards his brother. Mr Richard clapped a brotherly hand on his shoulder.

‘It’s true, Bertie. I know the girl is something of a prodigy for you, but she was seen consorting with some suspicious character in the Red Lion this afternoon and she won’t give his name.’

‘Is that all!’ said Mr Bertram, shaking off the hand impatiently. ‘There’s a perfectly obvious explanation …’

His eyes met mine and he hesitated.

‘And that would be, sir?’ asked the inspector.

Mr Bertram took a deep breath and tore his eyes away from mine. ‘I am sure your brother has told you of the suspicions we had when she arrived at the house.’

‘Suspicions?’ cried the inspector.